Back at home
by akari-meitantei
Summary: Written to 'theheadlessgirl' for the Johnlock Fanfic Exchange. Sherlock find out in an unexpected way, there are always second chances.


"Are you absolutely sure about this?" Mycroft's voice sounded particularly kind and soft, like he's really concerned; sitting on the fancy sofa in his office at the palace.

"Of course I am. I think three years are more than enough, don't you?" Sherlock answered, his eyes filled with a spark of anxiousness, getting on his black, old coat.

"But first you need to remember, Sherlock: Three years it's not as whatever as it sounds. He has been through a lot of…"

"I know that, stop. It's not like I wanted it, it was strictly necessary." He responded with bitterness, trying not to punch Mycroft in his British gentleman's face.

"Alright… Also take on count he has a new life now, _without you_, with Mary."

A tense silence occupied the air a few seconds, until Sherlock's snorting of anger broke it. "So? I didn't expect him to wait for me the rest of his life. It's _fine_; he is fine, and that's what matters to me." Says while began walking to the door.

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked up at his little brother "What in world are you trying to get with this? What are you even expecting? Just leave the poor man live the rest of his bloody life in peace, Sherlock."

The detective stopped abruptly. There was a little pause, and then he spoke slowly "He needs me, I know it! His— his leg and all his bloody psychological issues, are just a…"

"No. No, _you_ need him. Oh yes, you need him so bad." A little smile of pity appeared on the older of the Holmes' face "But just take a look at him now, Sherlock. Look at how happy he is without all your brilliantness." He said sharply, but still with a soft voice. "Realize it. Get over it. He's better without you."

Sherlock clenched his fists and turned to see Mycroft "Shut up! How many bloody times have we had this senseless conversation, huh? Moran is now on Yard's hands; Moriarty's dead. What more do I need to have my bes… My colleague, back!?" yelled with anger and desperation. "I don't fucking care what you think, I'm getting back with John."

Steps resounded along the enormous room and the door shuts with a loud clang.  
The 'iceman' took out his mobile phone and looked at his messages again_"We got Moran, as you asked us to. –DI Lestrade."_Was his last received e-mail. "Oh dear brother… I told you, didn't I? Caring is not an advantage." He whispered shaking his head "I think you need to realize it by yourself…"

The consulting detective walked quickly and almost with secrecy, amongst the crowd on the beautiful London streets.

It was autumn, and the days were becoming unbearably cold. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat, as in the old times; and smiled at the thought of John asking him not to do that.

He thought about John more than it was acceptable for him in the past years; it was almost annoying.

Also it was painful. So painful to find that amazing man walking alone down the streets, trying to convince the world that his friend was not a bloody fake, visiting the grave every single day he could. Sometimes he talked aloud and Sherlock just sat there, hidden, and listened to whatever John had to say, with that feeling, he always knew what was but didn't want to accept, of guilt.

Three years. Three whole years fighting against the impulse of run towards John and just yell at him "I'm fine! Just stop this, now." But Mycroft was the only one who always kept his feet on the ground, persuading him to not make anything stupid until it was the right time. And now, now that time finally had come; he was the one still trying to keep him away from John! Nonsense.

And this urge to see him again, which increased while time passed by and became even more when John began talking about Mary? Well, Sherlock obviously knew what the fuck it was. He realized about that since the very first moment he saw John crying on one of the times he visited the grave over the first year, and even before of that he'd realized that whatever he felt for John was just… not conventional. But, bloody hell, he was not even mentioning it, never.

Holmes arrived to Mortimer Street on Kensington District, almost thirty minutes later. It was a blessing and a curse that Watson's new home was so near from the Palace.

He nearly ran as he saw the porch a few meters in front of him; climbed the rungs quickly and stood in front of the door. His hand hesitated for a second at the thought that maybe Mycroft was just right and John no longer needed him. Improbable, but that may be the truth. But, he just had to…

His white, long finger pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later a sound of steps approaching made him feel a shiver: That weren't John's steps. Beautiful Mary Morstan opened the door. "May I help—you?" She asked, and immediately narrowed her eyes with doubt. "You—I've seen your face before. Yes, you're so alike to Mr. Ho— Oh no, it's not possible." Said, giggling with a lovely blush on her cheeks, but still a bit of confusion on her eyes.

Sherlock looked at her with a discreet smile; she was quite observant, young and pretty. But, watching a bit more closely, she looked exhausted: Her pale skin dry, not normally skinny and her gorgeous blue eyes tired. Maybe kind of… "_Yes, she looks sick. This cannot be good."_Thought, frowning. "Mrs.—Watson?" asked even when he was sure she was actually the wife. "I'm sorry; I'm looking for your husband."

"Oh, I'm so sorry; he's not here at the moment. Who's asking? Maybe I could take a message or anything else?" offered she, with a gentle smile.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, Miss Mary" He said, watching her as she opened her mouth in a perfect o, with genuine surprise and indignation.

"Jesus! No, it's not even funny you bastard! You don't even know how much my husband loved that man, and how devastated he was because of his _death_ when I knew him. Don't come here pretending to be him! Get out of my house, you little piece of—" she began coughing violently, and the detective hastened to hold her and get her in the house again.

Once inside and with Mary fine again, he tried one more time. "Mrs. Morstan, I know how unbelievable this sound, but I swear I'm not lying to you." Looked at her on hold of a response, but she just shook her head and took another sip from her glass of water. "Alright… Then let me explain you why I had to make John believe I was dead." He stared at her face again, but this time there wasn't any response. He just proceeded. "Has he ever told you Miss, about what happened after the Reichenbach case? About Moriarty?" she nodded "Well… He, James; wanted me dead no matter what. That was John's life or mine; it was all for his sake. I swear I've never intended to— I didn't want to make him feel like that. And to be honest, Miss; you have no idea of how it made me feel to see him like that. Because I saw it. I always did." He shut his mouth. That wasn't what he wanted. He _wanted John_ to hear that, not her. Why was he even trying to make that woman understand? It was so senseless. "But, you know? I think I should just leave now. I see Mycroft was right, for once…" He stood up and arranged his suit. Then took his coat, but suddenly, a fine hand touched his arm.

"Please, wait." Mary was standing at his side, her eyes filled with confusion and a splash of worry. Sherlock blinked twice, a bit surprised. "I need to ask you a favour; if you really are my husband's best friend."

"What do you want me to do?"

She smiled, still not sure if believe or not in his words. "Well; weren't you 'the most clever man in the whole United Kingdom'? Asked sarcastic. "I'm sick, Mr.—Holmes. And, in fact, I don't have much time left. Have you deduced it yet; what I'm asking you for?" She stared dead into his iridescent eyes.

"You—you want me to comfort him. When you're… Gone. Am I correct?"

"Indeed. Brilliant, Mr. Holmes." She said with a shinny gaze. It looked like she was about to cry, but he didn't know if do or not something to make her stop. "I don't want him to be alone never again."

"Look, Mary; I—"

"Three days." She interrupted him.

"What?"

"My doctor— gave me three, or four more days at much." Said smiling with a hint of sadness painting her soft, warm voice.

Sherlock almost felt happiness about that, and instantaneously though he may be a disgusting being. He was happy to know his best mate's wife was dying and letting him all just for himself once again, for god's sake! "You want me to wait until you die?"

"Yes, please." She responded with a 'you're-not-being-very-gentle' look. "Would you do it?"

Sherlock snorted. "With no offence, Mrs. Watson, I barely know you." He stared at her with almost unmoved eyes.

"I supported him while you were playing 'hide and seek' you, little prick. You don't even know how hard it was to see him like that… You owe me this one. _You owe him_."

Her last words made Sherlock's pride hurt a little bit. "I've already told you, ma'am that I was not 'playing' anything, also I—"

"Please, just promise me you'll wait, and will be with my husband when I'm gone. Please." She held Sherlock's hand, pressing it a little between hers.

He took a deep breath "Fine."

"Fine what, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at her, surprised of her insistence "Fine, I promise."

She left his hand go. "Thank you."

Holmes nodded. "Mrs. Morstan… Why are you insisting this much? What I mean is, there's not much difference between telling him now or after… You know."

She sighed, beaten; like she was busted on her plans by his question "I'll tell you." her eyes went all bright with the tears that were beginning to accrue. "He—I always knew he, John I mean, was not aware of his true feelings." Her voice was trembling, but she hadn't any intention to stop, apparently. "Whenever John tells me 'I love you' I can notice a different way in his voice, comparing it of when he says 'I loved him'. Are you getting now the idea?" She asked with a tear falling through her cheek, reaching her smiling lips. "You are more important to him, than I am, Mr. Holmes…" She chuckled softly, broken and finally with the tears springing uncontrollably from her eyes. "And the truth is I'm so greedy, that I want him to be just for me in heart and soul now I'm at the end of the trip."

Sherlock was kind of shocked. He didn't knew what to say, or if he even should say anything to that. "I get it now, please— just don't cry anymore." Was the only thing he was able to answer.

"Sure, sorry. Thank you so much for understanding me, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock. Just 'Sherlock' is fine." He said smiling, with a feeling of discommodity. Why was she being so honest? That just made the wait more annoying for the detective now he was aware of how John felt about him. And now more that ever, just wanted to make him know he was still there. "I'll leave you now, before he comes back." Said while began walking towards the door.

"You're right. Thank you, Sherlock. Really." She whispered nodding, at the time he was leaving, making a wave with his right hand.

"Honey, I'm home!" John announced. He walked to the kitchen and filled a glass with juice; the day was quite exhausting at the clinic. Then he headed to the living room, taking a look at the day journal.

There was still no signal of Mary, so John though she might be sleeping. But suddenly he saw her, over the sofa, with blood on her mouth. "Oh god… No, no! Mary!" He ran towards her, letting the glass and the journal fall on the carpet and held her faint body into his arms, shaking her face carefully but with desperation. "Mary, dear, please wake up! Please! Please—Ah! Oh my god!" he exclaimed when she slowly opened her eyes.

"Baby, you're home…" she murmured in low voice.

"Shh, Mary, don't talk. Not now." He said, making her sit on the couch. "I'll bring you the medicament, wait—"

"No, wait, luv; I've something to tell you." Mary said, with a lovely but tired smile.

John sighed, he just couldn't help it. He knew… The time was here. "What is it, dear?"

"I—this might sound like I'm hallucinating, I know. But…" she chuckled, but then coughed.

"Gosh! No, wait you need the medicine."

"No! No, John, please listen to me." She said, almost imploring, with her voice soft and cracking a bit more at every word she pronounced. "I—uhm… You should know, sweetie." Finding the right words wasn't easy "Your—Sherlock…"

John's eyes went wide open. "What? What does he even have to do with this, Mary?" He asked confused and anxious.

"John: I love you. You know it, right?" she said, caressing his face slow, gently.

"No, Mary—Mary, wait. Stop it." His eyes went cloudy, as he was trying with all his strength not to cry.

She looked into his eyes, almost as she was unaware of the tears falling through her now colorless cheekbones. "You'll be fine, my love… He—He's alive, John; and he'll look after you."

His voice was trembling, getting stuck in his throat, but he needed to talk "What are you even saying, Mary? Just—stop saying nonsense. You'll be fine, okay? I'll go for your medicine, babe. Wait." He stood up from the floor and ran to the little phone table; took the little bottle of pills and returned beside his wife. "Here."

"No, I don't want it." She said shaking her head, slow and heavily. "Listen. When this ends, I need you to call him, okay? He'll come, I asked him to do it. Understood?"

"Mary! Just stop! Sherlock Holmes is—dead! Okay? And you're staying with me! I— I need you…" His voice passed from being a desperate shout to nothing more than a cracked whisper, while the tears fell uncontrollably from his eyes. That was just way too painful. Why did it seem like the fucking life just wanted him to be alone with his demons, with his faults; suffering. Did he do something wrong? Why? "Please, Mary… Please…" he said as holding her tightly.

"Promise me you'll try to contact him. I swear you, he'll come. If you don't promise me that, I can't go in peace, my love." She said, as she tried to entwine her fingers with John's, but it was all just so vague and distant that she didn't even realize her hands were not responding anymore; neither her legs, and it all began to be first blue, then gray, more and more blurry. "I love you, John."

Then, there were no more sounds than John's sobs, while he held the inert body of his beloved wife; no more breathings, no more tears, than his. It felt like the fucking end of the world.

An hour, another one and one more passed until the ex-soldier was able to stand on his feet again. John called the funerary to come and pick up Mary's corpse. He felt like an automaton; he was just empty now, once again… He took his phone out of his pants and stared at the shining screen, where Sherlock's cell phone number was shown. John sighed. He was definitely not doing it. He really wanted to believe; really! But it was not more than an illusion, product of Mary's desperation to think someone was going to care about him. "_Oh Mary… No, nobody cares anymore. Not even me_." He though, chuckling.

Everything just felt so unnecessary, annoying, empty… _He_ felt like that.

A knock on the door brought him back to the moment, and he just could think that the people of the funerary were fast as hell. John sighed and opened the door; and suddenly he lost the air, the floor, his fucking mind: Sherlock, or a freaking ghost, was standing there, right in front of his own eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth and John shut the door.

"Are you really leaving me out?" He asked softly.

"Fuck you, you're dead." John said like in automatic, without moving, just staring at the front, waiting for his hallucination to trespass the wood of the door. His mind was just already way too scrambled to that.

"Just open already; the men of the funerary are arriving soon." He said, being as patient as never before.

The door opened, followed by a punch on Sherlock's face. "Well… That—actually felt real enough." John said as he fainted.

"Dear lord!" Sherlock ran towards him and took him inside the house. "I can't believe you've punched me and also hope me to take care of you." said as he placed John's unconscious body on the empty sofa.

Fifteen minutes later, the employees of the funerary arrived.

"The woman, please. He's just unconscious." He said, noticing the troubled faces of the workers.

They took her body, and the detective told them he and John would be at the mortuary in time for the burial.

They left and Sherlock sat on the floor, next to the couch where John was still sleeping.

He smiled and entwined his fingers with Watson's soft hair. The time has may wreaked havoc on his friend, but that childlike face hadn't changed yet.

There was this perfect time to make him know all the things he had to say without saying them for real, because he might not be listening.

"My dearest Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies." he murmured, chuckling. "I had no idea you would be so affected…"

"Oh, really?" John said, still half asleep without even opening his eyes. "You're a bloody bastard, Sherlock."

"I did it for your sake, and Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's" he continued petting John's hair, calmed, willing to wait all the time of the world for his friend to understand, and forgive his fake. "Also, Mary told me…"

John opened his eyes, and cleared his throat. "Told you what?"

The detective looked to the floor "She thought I'm more important to you, than she—was."

There was silence. "What are you even doing here? Why now?" No response…

"Well, I actually came earlier, and had a little chat with her." He looked up at John, who was still over the sofa, but now staring at Sherlock's face, like trying to find something on it that could take this crazy dream down. "And—she asked me to wait until she died, to come back."

"So, again: Why are you here now? How could you know she died?" He asked one more time, taking a proper sit.

Sherlock stood up, and sat next to him. "I—deduced, that her urgent necessity for me to promise her I would look after you, was because she was just resisting… for you." Looked at John's face, which was waiting to hear until the last word he had to say. "So when I just arrived to Bakerstreet, returned immediately. But, you were already here. I waited next to the window until I heard the 'I-don't-even-care-about-life-anymore' laugh, to make my entrance."

"God. You're a jerk."

"I know…" he said looking down to the floor.

"What?!"

Sherlock sighed. "I know I can be a… jerk. I'm sorry."

He was totally shocked. To hear the 'all-mighty, Sherlock Holmes' admitting that he may be a jerk, was absolutely one of John's fantasies. "Well, that was… Unexpected."

"Oh, shut up. Also, appearing here before time would be breaking the promise I made to your wife" he said, frowning; at the same time that stood up again "And now come, we need to watch for Mary's funeral."

"No." he said, stopping Sherlock "We just arranged the burial without any kind of religious ceremony first. She had no more family, and we were not very much into Catholicism. I think they're going to bury her in the morning." Explained, looking to that picture of her on the wall in front of him.

"Oh." Sherlock turned to look at it too. "I think she hated me." He said softly.

"What? She didn't even know you."

"She thought you love me more than her." He replied. "Also, she called me 'bastard"

John giggled. "I did it too."

"True." He said smiling.

"I don't think she hated you. She was not like that, you know?" he said, with a sad smile. "She was—the most incredible woman I've ever met. I owe her a lot." he sighed at the time he looked down to his hands.

"I owe her a lot too."

John looked at Sherlock's profile; and suddenly noticed how fast his heart was going. "I'm a bit troubled now."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know if it's alright to feel this happy to see you again, or if I should keep feeling miserable for loosing my wife, or if it would be okay to let out the anger you made me feel. I just don't know." He covered his eyes with both hands.

Sherlock took a seat next to John again, and in an unexpected change, hugged him, tightly. "I'm so sorry." he said "But, I just don't find possible to think that she would want you to be mournful."

He stayed still for a second, until he got used to that kind of touch. Then he managed to wrap Sherlock's impossibly tiny waist, while tears accumulated and fell from his eyes, filled of melancholy, but also this confusing feeling of happiness.

The night was now making everything colder. Both men were still on the same couch, each one with a cup of coffee, obviously made by John. They talked about where Sherlock was hidden, how he managed to catch Sebastian Moran, about the last conversation with Moriarty… There were a lot of topics to talk about. But there was one in specific that interested John the most.

"And?" He asked, staring at the detective's face.

"And, what?"

"You have to tell me. How you did it?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, I'm not telling you _that_."

"What? Why the fuck not?"

"You know I always explain you everything, Watson; but I really want this to be my very own little secret. Even if it's not completely secret." He smiled.

John smiled too "I know you'll end up revealing it to me, eventually."

"What are you saying? I won't do it"

"Yes you will."

"How can you be so sure?!"

"Because you're a show-off." He said, chuckling.

"… How could I let you know me so damn well?"

"You didn't; I made it myself. I wanted to know you as well as you know London."

"I see." He said vaguely. "Now I remembered something"

"What?"

"The things you said that day, in front of my gra—"

"Oh no, not that." He interrupted. John's cheeks were now as red as apples.

"I'm a hero?"

"God, just shut up already!"

Both laughed as they were little kids, letting aside for a moment the pain and all the bad things.

When the laughs stopped, Sherlock were the first to talk again.

"I missed you so bad, to be honest."

"Me too."

"No, you don't understand it, Watson. I_really_missed you." He repeated, making more emphasis. "I almost killed Mycroft a lot of times. He was the one always keeping me away from you." Said, smiling "Also I thought a lot about you. And, when your visits to the grave became less often…"

John nodded. "I think, Mary made me _want_ to forget you."

There was a silence. "I'm just— your colleague. You had no need to forget."

"No. No, you always were more than that."

"What, exactly?"

"Well… I don't know." John seemed a little nervous, like he was scared from something.

"Neither do I." he said, shaking his head slowly.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock took John's hand and put it on his chest. "You feel that?" His heart was beating so fast, for a moment John went scared of Sherlock may be about to have a hear attack. "It's always like that, just when we're together."

Watson smiled and did the same with Sherlock's hand. "Same here."

Both put their hands down again, but kept entwined their fingers, saying with that apparently insignificant act _'I'm not letting you go, ever again'_without actually saying it aloud.

It was almost two a.m., and John slowly fell asleep, leaning on Holmes' shoulder; while he just kept texting Mycroft, telling him to get ready the flat at 221B Bakerstreet.

The next morning, they went together to the graveyard; carrying an arrangement of orange blossoms and white roses. The hole had been just covered, apparently.

Both of them stood upon Mary's gravestone in silence, until John talked. "Would you give me a minute, alone?"

"What? Are you going to do the same as—"

"Just go!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Fine. I'll wait for you at the main door."

John gave him a look as he walked away. He took a deep breath, and left the flowers on the ground. "Are you completely sure of letting me alone with him?" Said, joking, but with a bit of sadness in his soft voice. "You should know that, I really loved you." His voice cracked a little, but he kept talking "You're wonderful, Mary. Thank you for being there for me, for always looking after my own good, even before yours. And also, thank you for giving me this chance."

He read once again the inscription: _'Here lies Mary Morstan: Beloved wife and woman_.' John smiled, and made a bow to the grave, the last bow. Then, walked away; feeling a little less pain in his heart after thanking her, that marvelous human being, for everything.

Sherlock and John decided to walk from the cemetery to Bakerstreet. There was no rush, not anymore. At least until they went back to the crime scenes once again.

It took a while to get to the flat, and when they did, both were still holding hands. They opened the door slowly, and at unison said all aloud: "Mrs. Hudson, we're home!"


End file.
